


couldn't hear the thunder, but i heard your heart race

by neptuneking



Category: Arrow (TV 2012), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (It was a happy ending for me but.........), (maybe), 2nd POV, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, aka 'you' is barry, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:16:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9373985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neptuneking/pseuds/neptuneking
Summary: You know you can’t help it.It’s embedded in your bones to love him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello!! sorry for the lack of fic, i have multiple works but 1) i've been without wifi, 2) im the world's best procrastinator.  
> also: the 'date'/'boyfriend' could be Julian Albert, if you're into that. if not, it can be anyone you choose. he's extremely vague, and i liked it that way. but as i said, whatever you like!  
> happy reading!  
> tyler xox  
> (p.s. thank you so much to Angela (Anything_Really), for always reading my stuff and telling me if it sucks or not. you're a true blessing.)

You know you can’t help it.

It’s embedded in your bones to love him.

The moment he glides his fingertips over your open palm and says, “I need to go.” You wish you could take everything you’ve ever felt, everything you’ve ever said, back. You want nothing more than to destroy yourself.

You don’t, you simply give a small smile and say your goodbyes. That hurts the most, you think. Saying goodbye to him is something you prayed you’d never have to do. You spent so long letting him take every part of you, that when he walks out the door there is nothing remaining. You drop to your knees and ponder every decision you’ve made that lead you to this exact heartbreak.

After that, there’s not a thing you can do to reverse time, no matter how hard you try. He’s gone and there is a gaping hole in your chest that the breeze floats through. Is it chilly in here?, you ask your friends. It’s not, you just don’t have any warmth left in you. That realization hits home, and you call in sick the next day.

You spend most of your hours remembering, and contemplating how it would’ve gone if you’d said something differently. There’s no use. What if you had asked him to stay? What if you called up his sister? What if, what if, what if. There was no way in hell that man was going to listen. Too stubborn, too headstrong, too precise in his decisions and feelings. He is an ancient rune to which you cannot move.

Life goes on for the people around you. You feel as though you’re stuck in an endless loop, replaying all of your greatest hits. That time you snuck out to sit on the roof of your apartment building, only to find him already there. You traded stories in the dark of night and laughed until your sides hurt. You provided company and a shoulder to lean upon. He took and took and took. It was okay. You were happy to give.

The kiss you never shared. The kiss you dreamed about for months, tossed over and over in your head. That kiss ghosts your lips when you take a swig from your beer. Your friend mentions his name, and you almost don’t hear it in the chaos of the bar. Reacting to it is slow, the hurricane of emotions it brings along dimmed because your brain is fuzzy and where is the bathroom in this place?

There’s a pause when your buddy repeats his sentence, and your mouth forms an 'O' but you stop yourself. You can’t finish it, or speak it out loud. The last time you did, it was in a broken whisper on your living room floor. A hand claps your back, and you’re relieved to see your friend is turning in, question forgotten. Some things are better left unsaid.

Stop hurting, stop hurting, stop hurting. You tumble into bed near 4 AM and fumble with your phone, bringing up his contact. You press dial without thinking twice and don’t have the energy to regret it. It rings, until a monotone voice says the number has been disconnected. Sober, you wouldn’t have expected much less. Drunk, you can’t help the pounding of your heart. Breathing seems very difficult all of a sudden.

The next morning, you pack up everything in your home that once belonged to him, or reminds you of him. The walls are almost bare when you’re finished. He snuck his way into every crack in your composure and made himself a constant. You can’t pour orange juice without thinking about the way his fingers once clutched that same glass.

There’s one sweater you keep. It’s maroon, your favorite color. He bought it for you for Christmas. Despite it being a gift, he borrowed it occasionally. You’d yell with humor, “Get your own!” But truly, you didn’t mind at all. Now, you’re thankful even. It smells like his cologne and you can’t force yourself to shove it into a box. You might never smell it again, so it gets a place in your top drawer.

When your foster sister swings by, she notes you need to put more pictures up and promises to get you an album full of family ones. She doesn’t dare let anything about him slip and you’re so grateful. You don’t know if you can handle questioning glances or reassuring touches. What you need right now is to let go.

Let go. That phrase is haunting you. _Let go._ Let go. Let go. A lot easier said than done. ‘Letting go’ comes in small doses, but you’re working towards it. You visit the pizza place down the street, the one you guys used to go to together. You order a large coke, breadsticks, and a cheese thin crust. You sit in a booth by yourself and watch the passing people out the window. You leave a hearty tip and your shoulders feel lighter when the bell chimes as you walk out the door.

Once you get going, nothing can stop you, really. You stop missing work, you stay overtime. You indulge yourself in the small treasures. You get coffee with your adoptive father, your boss gives you a promotion and you smile at strangers. You buy new throw pillows for your couch, and you paint your bedroom walls light blue.

On football nights, you invite your friends and family over. You all yell at the TV while eating chips and dip; a beer is settled in your hand but not because you want to get drunk. It’s there for small sips and to clink against your loved ones’ in cheers. Laughter flows easily through your body.

The time durations you’re able to go without thinking about him get longer and longer. A few hours, a few days, two weeks. Before you know it, it’s been three months before you stop while looking for a shirt. That maroon sweater is neatly folded and it’s mocking you. You take it out and lay it on the bed as you go in search for another tee.

On your way out to meet a date, you knock on your neighbor's door. She’s there and her boyfriend is over. You greet her and hand over the sweater, saying it’s in nice condition and you simply don’t care for it anymore. She accepts with a beam and tosses it at her lover’s face, “Here ya go, doofus.” The duo laugh loudly. You smile and say you’ll catch her on the flip side; she fondly rolls her eyes with an, “Okay, old man.” despite her knowing you’re in your early twenties. You always thought the sweater was scratchy against your collarbone anyways.

The guy sitting across from you isn’t all that bad. He works with you and you have a lot in common. His eyes sparkle and his hair seems soft to the touch. You think maybe something could be happening there, and you’re excited about it. You’ve worked hard, you say to yourself. You deserve to be okay.

Past the man’s light-hearted chuckle, you glimpse _him._ He’s just walked into the restaurant and your breath catches. Difficult, difficult, difficult. There’s a beautiful girl hung on his arm and for a brief second, you’re jealous. It fades to a mix of panic, sadness, and finally it rests with… Nothing. You avert your eyes and focus back on your current conversation.

The reason he’s back in the city is beyond you. There’s a pang of hurt that he didn’t try to contact you, but you wash it down with fancy champagne. You don’t make move to indulge him in any, “Long time no see! How have you been?” chatter and he doesn’t either. He seems interested in the blonde woman and only her. Avoiding him and his eyes is simple enough. You eat your food and tell childhood stories and laugh. There’s no silences, and you find yourself so relieved this is going so well. You pay the bill and leave a wad of cash for a tip, and you walk out with your arm around your date’s shoulders.

He stays. You allow yourself to wonder again why he hasn’t tried to get in touch with you, but also why you haven’t either. _Letting go._ If given the chance, you wouldn’t say hello. Five months ago, you let a tear slip at his name. Oliver. You say it in your head and you say it out loud, without flinching. Oliver. Oliver, Oliver, Oliver. He broke you by walking out that door and you put the pieces of yourself back together with super glue.

He doesn’t get to waltz back in and take that away from you. Remember.

You’re making pancakes with your new lover one morning, sharing sweet pecks around chocolate chips. Date after date, he helped you build your stable mindset stronger. This is what you deserve. Happiness. The knock seems unharmful, and you go to check the door still shirtless, hair a ruffled mess from sleep. A smile lingers as you twist the knob, unaware of who might be on the other side of the wood. You freeze.

He’s there, jacket folded over his left forearm. He seems hesitant, and drained. You don’t say anything for long enough that your boyfriend calls out, “Who is it, babe?” You’re not quite sure anymore. The man you used to love is not the man standing in front of you.

“Hey, Barry.” His voice makes your throat clench, and you stop yourself from tightening your knuckles. You realize your reaction is not because he means anything to you, but because he doesn’t. He does not know you, and he does not get to say your name in that soft undertone of his.

You nod in reply and you can see his fingers shaking slightly. What has he gotten himself into? You wonder if he thought about you when he left as much as you thought about him. Did he wake up in cold sweats, the words, ‘Don’t go.’ falling from his vocal chords? Did he sit on the tile floor with the bathtub water running for hours? Did he lose himself the way you did? No. He was perfectly fine with his decision.

You shake it off. Somehow, someway, you recovered. You discovered who you were again. This man does not know where to go. He needs someone to pick up his pieces and you are no longer that person.

“What are you doing here?” Is all you can provide. He shifts, eyes darting behind you and you realize your lover has slipped up to rest his hand in between your shoulder blades. He says, in a strained tone, “I should go.” So similar, those words are coming from him. Familiar in a way that’s unrecognizable. I need to go, I should go. Go, go, go. Letting go.

You nod again and he takes a shaky breath in, you can see his chest wavering with it. You do not owe him anything. He backs up, and then he’s gone again. Two times, you’ve been unable to stop him from going. There is no pain when you close the door.

That night, you stare up at the ceiling. You’re debating with yourself about whether you did the right thing, turning him away. Guilt clogs your senses and you search his name up on facebook. You type and delete six messages before you settle on one you’re able to send. _Why?_

One single word can hold so much depth and you dissect why that is. You don’t get a reply until 6 AM. _I needed to._ You answer back while you’re getting ready for work. _Okay._

You meet on the rooftop, several days later. He’s dangling his legs off the side and your momentary anxiety is replaced by how cute he looks. You scold yourself for even bringing a passing thought like that to the light. You settle beside him and your shoes knock together. The sun sets.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He asks.

You answer truthfully, “I’m not sure.”

“Oh.”

The quiet reins again and a million questions speed by. You want to ask all of them but don’t utter anything. Just when you began to feel secure, he digs up your roots. You nearly hate him for this. He’s the one who decided he needed to get away, and to cut all ties, you remind yourself. He wished everything upon himself. You can’t show pity to a man who knows better.

When he rests his head on your shoulder, you glance back at a period in your life you’d be so eager to comply. This time, you scoot farther away and let his head lift off. His expression is one of slight hurt and acceptance. You don’t bother explaining. He knows.

“This is it, then?”

Your body is tense at the implications of what that means. You look down and fiddle with your thumbs, mulling it over. A tired nod and that’s that.

Nothing else is spoken.

When it gets late, and the air gets frigid, you head inside without another thought. He hasn’t changed. Deep down, you knew it. A small, selfish part of you wished otherwise; foolish boy. Luck to his next victim.

You crawl into bed and check the voicemails your boyfriend sent you, worry lacing his tone and you feel bad. You call him and tell him everything, starting from the first time you met him; your voice is hoarse by the time you say your goodnights and ‘I love you’s’. He sees your past and he understands. He assures you he isn’t mad you saw _him_ and asks if you wanted Big Belly Burger for lunch tomorrow. You chuckled and said hell yes.

 _He_ doesn’t seek you out anymore, and there’s an odd sense of calmness you feel. He’s fleeting in your mind’s eye, a fading scar on your elbow. Snuggled up with popcorn and Friends reruns, hand in hand with someone who loves you just as much as you love them, you’re content.

Yeah, you’re alright. Breathing comes easy.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! comments and kudos are always appreciated! i do take requests, and i have a lot of things in the works right now: hit me up at fakeyououtbucky.tumblr.com or on kik: titledtyler :)


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